It was only the most trusted friends who held your place. They lined us up for everything at Washington Elementary. The lavatory. The drinking fountain. The library. And it continued onto the playground, at the monkey bars and swings. At the Dairy Queen. The movie theatre. But urgencies arose, and we asked our closest friends to hold our place as we navigated from the middle of the ticket line into the back of the bathroom one. Darting back without missing a step. 

We had special languages then. Phrases and words. Tattoos from Cracker Jack boxes. We wrote on each other’s hands. Pricked our fingers. Braided our hair. Anything to connect. To hold our place. 

I suppose we’re still doing that. I know that I am. I can leave the country for six months, and before I’ve changed my internal and external clock, I am mid conversation with the ones who pinky-sweared to be there upon my return. Always making room for me. 

It’s not lost on me that I gave her my hand painted bookmark. We Wordle daily, long distance. Share silly thoughts and emails. And we are tassled together. Even as life throws us from line to line, beyond the grumbles of those waiting, those checking their watches and throwing hands in air, we smile, knowing, repeating, “Oh, but it is my place!”